


Monsieur de Treville's Home for Wayward Boys

by CelticAurora, PoeFaraday



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Slow Build, Treville runs a boarding home for boys, WWII AU, kind of, nothing too graphic, tiny!musketeers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-07 21:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3184538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelticAurora/pseuds/CelticAurora, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoeFaraday/pseuds/PoeFaraday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1939, Britain. As fear for the country's safety mounts and the threat of invasion and attack by German forces grows, young Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan find themselves at a refuge for displaced children of war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1939

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AmaDayDream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmaDayDream/gifts).



> Not super-meticulously beta'ed. Judge tenderly, if you please.

The paperwork said his name was Olivier de la Fère - a regal name for the boy across from whom Treville was seated at the desk in his office. He was a small, skinny lad with a mop of brown hair and piercing green eyes, dressed in a jumper and a pair of dark pants that were at least two sizes too big. They were the clothes the hospital had sent him in - spare clothes, probably belonged to some poor soul who didn’t make it. He sat stiffly - part of it was his posh upbringing, but the other part of it was the puffy, half-healed skin on his back, that didn’t like touching the scratchy wool of the jumper. He had been sitting silently, hands tucked under his legs, eyes on the table. When Treville took a seat across from him, however, he looked up; Treville could see that the damage from the fire that had brought Olivier to the home had left its mark on his neck as well, though, fortunately, seemed to have spared his face. Sullen eyes stared balefully at him, waiting for him to speak.

“So...you’re Olivier?” Treville began.

“No,” he answered with a scowl, folding his hands on the table in front of him and offering Treville a steely gaze. “My name’s not Olivier. It’s Athos.”

Treville nodded. He didn’t understand the point of the nickname, but, at least, the boy was speaking. He’d spoken to the nurse in charge of his care at St. Bart’s, and she had said that in the six weeks he’d been recovering there, he’d spoken perhaps a dozen words the entire time.

“Athos, then. How old are you, Athos?”

“Seven. Almost eight.” He continued to glare. “Who are you?”

Treville sat back in his stiff wooden chair, crossing his fingers in his lap and hiding a curious little smile. He had seen his fair share of precocious children in his day - he’d been running the home for nearly twenty years now, and he had been a wayward boy himself before then. He knew what defiance was, and why certain children used it as a defence. This Olivier - no, Athos - seemed a tough nut to crack for a seven-year-old, but Treville figured he’d open up in his own time, and with the right coaxing.

“Do you want my name, or what I do here?” Treville replied, crossing his legs.

Athos shrugged his scrawny shoulders, looking out the tall, dingy windows. “Don’t care.”

“Well, my name is Mr. Treville. If you must know, my first name is John. I didn’t like being called that for a long time,” he added, relating to the boy. “And I am in charge of this house, and your new caregiver.”

“I don’t want a new caregiver,” Athos said, face growing dark. “I want my parents.”

Treville nodded. This was progress, however thinly disguised. “I understand, Athos. Unfortunately, the IRA have made returning to your parents...impossible. So for now, you will stay here with us. I don’t expect you to enjoy it, though I hope in time, you will find a place here. There are plenty of boys your age who--”

“I don’t care about boys my bloody age!” he shouted back with as much force as a boy his size could muster. “I want to go home!”

“I know, Athos,” Treville said with a sigh. “And I’m sorry. But, right now, that’s not possible.”

“Where is my brother?” Athos asked. “Why was I brought here alone? Thomas...I want Thomas…”

Drawing a deep breath, Treville glanced down at the paperwork he’d looked over and over again. He didn’t need to find the answer there; he already knew. He knew everything about this boy, and the circumstances that had resulted in his placement at the home. “Thomas is very ill, Athos, and he needs time to recover. His burns were worse than yours. He is in a place where they will take very good care of him, and when he is well, he will be brought here to join you.”

“You’ve left him there alone? He’s only four years old, for Christ’s sake!” Athos slumped down in his chair, glaring at Treville. “This is mental. I don’t want to stay here.”

After a long moment, the man stood, pushing the chair out from behind him with a dry scrape on the old hardwood floor. He straightened his jumper and walked around to the boy’s chair. “Would you take a walk with me, Athos? Just for a moment?”

The boy sat in silence, kicking his foot through the air. He tucked his hands back under his legs, and his hair fell in his eyes. Finally, he nodded, his gaze trained somewhere between the wainscoting and the floor. “Alright.” He stood up with as much dignity as a boy his age possessed - a credit to his upbringing, of course - and took a deep breath. “Where are we going?”

“I want you to have a look around our building. Again, you don’t have to like it, but circumstances such as they are, you’re stuck with us for now. Might as well see a little of it,” Treville replied, leading him from the office. They headed down the hall, further into the building. The sounds of children running and shouting and playing echoed through the halls, and they had to press against the wall more than once as groups of boys ran past, chasing a stray ball or playing tag. Glancing down, Treville noticed that his young companion’s face had lost some of its sullenness, and he watched the other children with some measure of interest. And, of course, he knew just the person to introduce him to.

“Come on, this way,” Treville encouraged him, leading him up the stairs. They headed down a corridor of dormitories, some of which were occupied, but most of which were currently empty. Out of a tall window at the end of the hall, Athos could see the yard out back, where boys ranging in age from probably eight to seventeen played - some at cricket, others at blind man’s bluff.

“Porthos,” Treville called, and Athos scurried after him, momentarily lost in the sight out the window. Treville made room for him in the doorway, so Athos could see whom he was addressing. It was another boy - probably eight or nine, though it was hard to tell. He was seated on the end of a bed, knees drawn up to his chest as he looked up from the book in his hands. “Porthos, this is Athos. I wondered if you might show him around a bit,” Treville introduced.

The dark-skinned boy set his book aside after carefully sliding a bookmark into place. He stood up - he was tall for his age - and came over to them, standing far enough back that Athos wasn’t crowded. “I don’t mind, sir,” Porthos replied, smiling. He held out his hand to Athos. “S’nice to meet you, Athos.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Athos took his hand, shaking it as a gentleman would. “Nice to meet you too, Porthos.”

“Shall I leave you two to get acquainted?” Treville asked, smiling.

Porthos gave him a nod. “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll make sure he settles in.”

“There’s a good lad. If you need anything, come find me,” Treville replied before turning for the door. He paused in the threshold, turning to smile at Athos once more. “Welcome to the home, Athos. I hope you can find some comfort here.” And with that, he turned and was gone.

As soon as he was gone, Athos turned to look at the boy called Porthos, who had put his book down and was staring back at him. “Why’re you here? Did you lose your home, too?”

The boy shrugged, going back to sit on the edge of his bed. “This is where I’ve lived, long as I can remember,” he replied.

“As long as you can remember?” Athos looked around. While the place was not falling to pieces and was actually decent as far as a boys’ home went, he still couldn’t imagine spending his whole life there. “How long is that?”

Porthos shrugged again, looking around the room. “Don’t really know, for sure. Mr. Treville says I’m eight, but I don’t know how far back I can remember.”

“What’s it like here?” Athos cautiously approached the bed, pointing to a spot next to Porthos. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

Porthos smiled and nodded. “Yeah, go right ahead,” he replied, moving over a little so Athos had more room. “‘S’nice here. Mr. Treville’s good to us, and most of the boys are alright. Food’s okay, but it’s better than nothin’. And if there’s anythin’ you want - books, games… Treville will at least try to get it for you,” he added, lifting up the book he had been reading earlier. It was a battered old copy of _Great Expectations_. “He got me _Peter Pan_ last year. I’m tryin’ to get better.”

“Are you still learning how to read?” The idea seemed preposterous to Athos, that Porthos was at least eight and didn’t know how to read, but he knew that not all people were as lucky as him, to attend the kind of schools he had. He looked at the book, squinting at the title. “Great Expectations? I’ve not read it.”

A blush crept into Porthos’s cheeks and he stuffed the book under his pillow. “Well, I’m not very far. But it’s good. It’s about a boy who goes to a rich old lady’s house and a mysterious man helps him by givin’ him money, and… well that’s as far as I’ve got so far. You could borrow it when I’m done, if you like.”

“That’d be really nice,” Athos said. “Do you...does Treville have art supplies here? I really liked to paint when I still lived with my parents.”

“Maybe,” Porthos replied with a shrug. Athos was beginning to wonder if shrugging was his answer for everything. “You could ask him. I dunno what he’ll be able to get, but it doesn’t hurt to ask.”

“I’ll ask him.” Athos looked down at his shoes, unsure of what to say next. He’d never really had a lot of friends at school - the de la Fère name was well-known, but it also seemed to make it hard for his schoolmates to approach him. And now? Well, he didn’t want people around. Didn’t want them to apologize, didn’t want their sympathies for what had happened to his parents. For the fact that his brother was sick. Here? He just didn’t want people around him. He wanted Thomas, and that was really it.

But maybe he could find a friend in Porthos?

Silence hung between them for a long moment, and finally, Porthos spoke again. “D’you know where your bed is yet?” he asked.

Athos shook his head. “Not really. I think Mr. Treville pointed it out when I first got here, but...I don’t want go there at night, I...I can’t sleep.” He hadn’t slept at all during his stay at the hospital, after the bomb at Victoria Station. He and Thomas had been standing outside the luggage area, but his parents were much closer. The boys had made it out with just burns. It wasn’t until later, when he was all bandaged up and deposited in a corner at St. Bart’s that he found out they had been killed. Six weeks later, all the bandages had come off, and he’d been brought here.

“I think there are a few beds in here that are open,” Porthos replies, sliding off the bed and walking around the room a bit. “If you want, you could take one of them. I’d like the company.”

“I think I would too,” Athos said, sliding off the bed. “Can we save one of the beds? Mr. Treville said my brother would come here, as soon as he was well again.”

Porthos smiles, showing off his straight teeth. “Yeah, definitely! Is he older or younger?”

“Younger.” Athos smiled a little, his first time smiling since Victoria Station. “Thomas is only four. I’m seven.”

“What’s he like?” Porthos asked. “I’ve never had a brother. Not really.”

“Sometimes we don’t get along,” Athos said, following Porthos to two empty beds that stood side-by-side. “But I love him. He wants me to teach him everything I know. I went and saw him a few days ago, at the hospital. I promised him we could paint as soon as he was well enough.”

Athos rolled up his sleeves, showing Porthos the half-healed burns on his arms. He had been lucky - Thomas’s were far, far worse than that. “We were hurt.”

Porthos winced visibly at the sight of the burns. “Sorry,” he answered. He didn’t have to ask about Athos’s parents. Athos assumed that most of the boys here had experienced some kind of loss, so he was certain his story would be nothing new to Porthos. “Nobody else to take you in?” he asked instead.

“All of our family lives in France,” Athos said, rolling his sleeves back down, wincing when his shirt dragged over the still-healing skin. “It’s too dangerous to send Thomas and I there. And Thomas is too sick for them to move him. He was burned very badly.”

“You’re French, then?” Porthos inquired, raising a dark eyebrow. “Here, follow me,” he continued, heading into the hallway.

Athos replied, tagging after him. “On my father’s side. My mother is - was - English. Father spent most of his time in England, especially after Thomas was born,” he explained as Porthos led him to a narrow door in the wall, no wider than a man’s shoulders. Porthos opened the door and inside, Athos could see stacks of linens - some old, with faded patterns, others new, plain and stark white. Porthos grabbed a few of the white sheets and they turned back for the room. “My father was a banker,” Athos added as they returned to Porthos’s dormitory.

“A banker, eh?” Porthos asked. “Is that what brought him to England?”

Athos nodded. “That, and my mother. He moved here after Thomas was born...did we get sheets for Thomas’s bed?”

“Oh, no, sorry. Forgot,” Porthos replied. “Hang on, I’ll get more.” He hurried back out of the room, returning a few moments later with more sheets piled in his arms. “Here, help me make the bed.”

“Of course!” Athos helped Porthos pull the sheets onto the bed, although truth to tell, he’d never been very good at it while he still lived at home, with his parents. The housekeeper had shown him several times, but he always failed to make the corners of his sheets as crisp as hers were.

Porthos tucked the sheet under his side of the bed and looked across at Athos. “That’s one of the things we’re expected to do here. We have to make our beds. Treville has people to cook for us, because there’s so many of us here, but we have to make our beds and keep our rooms tidy.”

“I tried to learn,” Athos said, tucking the sheet in on his side as Porthos had. “The housekeeper we had, she was trying to teach me. Her corners were always so crisp and neat.”

Porthos chuckled, shrugging yet again. “Eh, Treville doesn’t care if they’re perfect. He just wants ‘em done.”

Athos nodded. “I can do that.”

Porthos had grabbed for the sheets for Thomas’s bed, but Athos reached out and took them first. “I want to do it. For my little brother.”

Porthos simply nodded and smiled. “Let me know if you want help, yeah?” he asked.

Athos rewarded him with a tiny smile. “I will. Thank you, Porthos.”

The taller boy grinned and climbed back onto his bed, pulling his book out from under the pillow. “‘Course, mate. ‘S’what friends are for, ain’t it?”

As Athos tucked the sheets into the bed and fluffed up the pillow, he could hear the sounds outside of the boys playing. Boys who had lost their parents, or for whom it was no longer safe to live in the city. They were happy here, or at least close enough to it that they could get by. He smiled to himself, thinking about what he might paint first if Treville were able to get supplies for him. He thought about Thomas, playing ball with the smaller boys. He could learn to be happy here, he thought for the first time in six weeks. He already had one friend, in Porthos - at least, he dared to hope they were friends. And then, once Thomas came, everything would be alright. He threw the top blanket over the bed and sat on it, looking out the window at the grey English sky with a sigh of hope. As bad as things might have been, at least Athos had found himself in a place that he might not hate as badly as he thought. In fact, maybe he’d even like it. And as he listened to Porthos stumble through the bigger words of _Great Expectations_ , he decided he would make a gentleman’s effort to try.

Three weeks later, Treville received news that Thomas de la Fère was dead.


	2. 1941

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> René took Athos’s hand and shook it, though he wrinkled his nose. “Athos and Porthos? What kind of names are those?”
> 
> Porthos bristled slightly at the Spanish boy’s words, but, if Athos was annoyed, he gave no sign of it. Instead, he merely shrugged. “They’re our names. What’s yours?”
> 
> “René.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is kind of turning into a monster. Lol whoops. Here's chapter 2! As soon as we've gotten past the next chapter, we promise they'll be a little less exposition-y and a little more exploring-fun-specific-times-y.

It was with a string of loud Spanish profanities that the newest resident of Treville’s Home for Wayward Boys announced his arrival. Unlike most of the rest of the boys, who were brought by state workers or nurses, this boy was brought by a pair of bobbies, who deposited him unceremoniously in the chair in front of Treville’s desk. Not that it mattered; he was out of the chair three seconds after they left him there, pounding furiously at the door through which they departed and swearing a blue streak in his native tongue.

There weren’t many disciplinary cases that came to the home these days; since the outbreak of the war, most of the children that arrived there had been evacuated from Manchester, or Liverpool. But a few trickled in, every now and then. Today, it was a boy of about ten years, with an unruly tangle of black hair on his head and a fierce light in his eye. Treville watched, letting him kick the door and thrash and scream in Spanish and English; the door was locked, and forcing the boy to sit still and calm down would have only made things worse. After a solid ten minutes - Treville had to give the boy credit for the impressive time - he sank to his knees, his head against the thick oak, and his shoulders shook with silent, angry tears. A minute of that, and Treville finally spoke, his voice soft and without anger or judgment.

“You speak English,” he said, a statement of fact rather than a question. “Would you speak to me in English?”

The boy hiccuped, scrubbing at his face furiously with the back of his hand. “Quizás. No sé.”

“Will you tell me your name, at least?” Treville asked.

“René,” the boy answered quietly.

Treville smiled to himself. A French name for a Spanish boy who spoke English. It certainly wasn’t ordinary, but somehow, he decided it was fitting. “Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself, René?”

He shook his head. “No.”

Treville almost laughed. God, it was like Athos all over again. Although, he had to admit, it did give him an idea. The boy was in no fit state to open up to him, but...perhaps, to two other boys his age…

“May I introduce you to someone?” he asked, trying a different tactic. “It’s not an adult, I promise.”

René’s dark eyes were suspicious. “Who is it?”

“It’s actually two someones,” Treville admitted, standing up. “And I think you might like them.”

Finally, the boy looked at him over his shoulder, straightening up a little. “If this is a trick…”

Treville shook his head. “No tricks. I just need you to promise me that if we leave this room, you won’t run. If you meet the boys I’d like to introduce you to, I will leave you alone, but you must promise not to try to run away.”

A long thread of silence hung between them, but Treville could see the slim muscles in the boy’s arms and back slowly loosening, the tension leaching out of him bit by bit. Finally, the boy nodded. “I promise.”

Treville opened the door, guiding René upstairs and down the hallway to the room at the end, by the large window - the room Athos and Porthos had shared for two years now. The door was partially open; he glimpsed Porthos on his bed with a copy of _Frankenstein_ , and the bed between his and Athos’s, left empty for a little boy who was supposed to come but never did. He couldn’t see Athos’s bed; it was tucked out of the line of sight offered to him by the half-open door. He rapped gently against it. Porthos scrambled off the bed, but it was Athos who emerged in the space between the door and its frame.

“Mr. Treville?” he asked.

“I’ve brought someone to see the two of you,” Treville said, ushering René forward.

Athos looked at the boy, and Porthos came up behind him, smiling. “You new here?” the taller boy asked, all cheer and straight teeth.

“Sí,” René answered, nodding, switching to English for their clarification. “Yes.”

Athos nodded, offering a hand. “I’m Athos. This is my friend, Porthos.”

René took Athos’s hand and shook it, though he wrinkled his nose. “Athos and Porthos? What kind of names are those?”

Porthos bristled slightly at the Spanish boy’s words, but, if Athos was annoyed, he gave no sign of it. Instead, he merely shrugged. “They’re our names. What’s yours?”

“René.”

Porthos made a noise that sounded like an amused snort, causing René to bristle slightly. Athos merely opened the door wider, glancing up at Treville, who gave him a small nod.

“Would you like to come in?”

René looked up at Treville, torn - the look on his face was questioning, even a little eager, but there was something in his eyes that said he suspected a trick. Treville only gave him a small, but encouraging, smile.

“Athos and Porthos are very good friends to have,” he said.

That seemed to settle René’s mind, at least for the time being. He stepped inside, not noticing that Treville slipped back down the hallway as Athos closed the door. The room beyond was small but well-lit and tidy; three narrow single beds were pushed against one wall, while a bookcase was on the wall opposite. There was a desk, too, and the chair from the desk had been dragged over to the bookcase. The desk had papers neatly stacked on it, as well as several pencils lined up with the papers. Not school papers, though, but drawings, of the outside of the home, of the boys playing in the courtyard, and of two boys sitting side-by-side, reading a book. Porthos climbed back onto his bed on the end, stuffing his book under his pillow. Athos, meanwhile, climbed onto the bed on the other end. Frowning, René jerked his chin at the empty bed in the middle.

“Who sleeps there?”

Both boys went stiff. Athos looked down at his lap, lips pressed together, while Porthos sat up straighter, poised like he was ready to jump off the bed at any moment. René almost regretted asking the question.

“A boy who was supposed to come here,” Athos answered quietly, not looking up.

“What happened to him?”

No one spoke for a long moment. Finally, Athos looked up, his green eyes bright and watery.

“He’s dead.”

“Oh.” René could guess, by the look on Athos’s face, that this boy who died was someone close to him. He knew that kind of sorrow, that pain, knew it from the way his mother had wept at the kitchen table as she stared at the spot across from her that was empty, the spot where his father had always sat. Knew it from the emptiness it had left within him. René had been only six when he had died, and the details of the death of Gaspar d’Herblay were hazy at best. What he understood was that his father had been in the wrong place, at the wrong time, supporting the wrong man. Later, René had felt that emptiness again when Marsac kissed the top of his head and made him promise to be good before he was half dragged away by his commanding officer, to die in some forgotten German battleground. “I’m sorry.”

Athos shrugged, but did not reply. Instead, Porthos smiled, changing the subject. “You’re not from England, are you?”

René shook his head, chewing his lip. “Esp-- Spain,” he replied, correcting himself. “My father was born in Spain, but his parents were French and Spanish.”

Porthos’s grin only grew. “Hear that, Athos? We’ve got another Frenchie in our room!”

Athos perked up slightly, looking up at René with curiosity. René offered him a smile in return. “Are you French, as well?”

“Half. My father was French,” he said.

“You gotta admit, though, Olivier de la Fére sounds incredibly French,” Porthos teased, laughing.

“Why do you think I go by Athos?”

Porthos grinned, leaning forward to nudge Athos in the ribs with an elbow. “‘Cause you’d be too posh for us otherwise,” he replied.

“I suppose,” Athos said. “How did you end up here, René?”

At that, the boy’s face clouds over again, and he stares down at the floorboards. “Got in trouble,” he mutters.

Athos and Porthos exchanged a glance from across the room - he must have been the one doing all the screaming they’d heard earlier. Porthos sighed, putting a hand on René’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to.”

And René didn’t want to talk about it. Porthos showed him his small collection of books. Athos, though reluctant at first, told him about the drawings he had done. The three of them went in search of a ball to throw, and ended up in a cricket match with some of the other boys. René didn’t say a word about the circumstances of his arrival at the home for two months, and then finally, as the three sat in their beds one night - Porthos picking his way through David Copperfield, his latest acquisition, Athos sketching the shadows on the wall, and René untangling a pile of string - he spoke.

“I got caught stealing,” he said, his voice hushed, his eyes and nimble fingers focused on picking apart the string.

Porthos looked up, his dark brows gathering in the middle of his forehead. “What?”

The Spanish boy took a deep breath and spoke again, still not looking at his companions. “I was stealing things from the buildings that were blown up. That’s why they brought me here. I was alone in London, and I was mad, so I stole things.”

“Why were you alone?” Athos asked, tilting his head to the side, examining René - though not with judgment, more curiosity and even a hint of sadness for the other boy’s plight. “I thought you lived with someone…”

“I did,” René replied. “He...left. To fight. He didn’t want to. He had to.”

Again, Athos and Porthos exchanged looks across the room. In the two months that he’d lived with them, neither of them had seen René quite as raw as he was now. It was like the first day with him all over again - but this time, he was laying bare his soul. Laying bare the hurt that no boy his age should have had.

Porthos was the first one to make a move. He climbed off his own bed and onto René’s, settling next to the Spanish boy with a sympathetic look on his face.

“I’m really sorry, mate.”

René rested his head on Porthos’s shoulder with a sigh. Even Athos stood up and came over to the bed, reaching out to just barely touch the boy’s hand with his fingertips. After a long moment of silence between the three of them, it was Athos’s turn to speak.

“The bed was supposed to be my brother’s.” René looked up with surprised eyes, finding that Athos was staring at the ground, scuffing one worn slipper against the other. “He spent almost three months in the hospital after the bomb went off in Victoria Station. I thought he was going to come here and live with me and Porthos but...he never did. He died in the hospital. And I wasn’t there with him.”

The Spanish boy’s hand turned over so that their palms were together, and after a moment, he squeezed Athos’s hand. There was so much in that gesture - empathy, sorrow, understanding, hope…

“We’re here for you, René,” Athos said after a moment.

The boy shook his head, but there was a faint, sad smile on his face. “No. Not René.”

“No?” Porthos asked. “But that’s--”

“I don’t think René really fits me anymore,” he said with a small shrug.

Athos nodded, giving his hand a little squeeze in understanding. “Well, if your name’s not René, then what is it?”

“Aramis.”

Porthos squinted an eye. “Aramis?”

“Marsac...he grew up in a town in France, called Aramits,” he answered. “Took me there once, when I lived with him. I liked it there so much I swore I’d live there myself one day, but...I, ah...couldn’t pronounce the name of the town properly. I called it Aramis. Scandalized a few of the people who lived there, I think.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Porthos’s bow-shaped mouth. “Alright, then. Aramis it is. ‘S’long as you answer to it, that’s what we’ll call you.”

And indeed, he did.

Aramis was not the same boy that had been dragged kicking and screaming into Treville’s Home for Wayward Boys two months ago. With the change of his name came a change of his personality; he spent nearly all of his time attached at the hip to Athos, Porthos, or the two of them together, and when he wasn’t with them, he was likely in the kitchens, plying his charms on the ladies who cooked for the home’s residents in the hopes of earning extra bread or apples to share with his friends. The staff at the home began fondly referring to them as the Inseparables, so often were they in each other’s company. Many a morning, when making the rounds to wake the boys for breakfast, Treville had discovered some combination of the three of them, all tangled and curled up together in one of the beds, or huddled asleep under a fort they had built beneath a bed.

That’s not to say that there weren’t occasional glimpses of the boy Aramis had been. The worst of it came when a uniformed man showed up on Treville’s doorstep, asking to speak to him in regards to a boy in the care of one Christophe Marsac. His squad had been attacked while passing through the German countryside; though Marsac had made it out alive, it seemed, he was missing in action, presumed to have been taken captive by German soldiers. That had made the old René resurface - he had screamed, tears pouring down his face, in a broken mix of Spanish, English, and French at both Treville and the lieutenant for a solid twenty minutes, before disappearing down the hall with a slam of Treville’s office door.

It took almost the entire day to find Aramis following that.

In the end, Porthos and Athos discovered him tucked in the branches of the sprawling oak in the field behind the house, knees pushed up against his chest, his face buried in his arms. Porthos had climbed up, and Athos had waited at the bottom, and Porthos had spent a good ten minutes talking to Aramis and trying to coax him down. They carefully picked their way back down the tree, and the three had made their way back inside, and the next morning, Aramis was back to his usual self.

It wasn’t perfect, by any stretch of the imagination. Europe was embroiled in war. Bombs were falling, people were dying, and the whole world seemed to be going mad.

Athos, Porthos, and Aramis never had any illusions that things were perfect, not even from their young ages. Athos’s entire family was dead, as was Aramis’s. Porthos had no idea if he ever had a family to begin with, where they were or what had happened to them.

But, if nothing else, they had each other.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was enough.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. So serious historical liberties taken here, especially in the first chapter. The IRA attack on Victoria Station only injured five people, but we needed something here. So Athos and his brother were two of the injured, but his parents were killed. More inaccuracies to come, I'm sure. We're doing our best here.


End file.
